Shooting and Praying

Josh Rottman

Son, I’ve been watching the game of lacrosse a long time. Since before you were born, even before I met your mother. She used to ask so many questions. “Why did they get the ball back? Can they really do that, just whack each other like that?” Admittedly, it’s complicated. I mean, I get it. But at every level I’ve watched, every level I’ve coached, played, organized, whatever, there was always this one question she’d ask that’d snag at me. After the most beautifully executed goals, she’d ask, “How do you know that’s really where he was aiming?” Just like that, and it’d snag at me. When I’d just graduated, and I started watching from the stands with her for the first time, it didn’t snag at me that much. I mean, because you just know. You can tell. Like when Mikey Powell threw that behind-the-back in 2002, you didn’t look at me and ask, “Dad, you think that’s really where he was aiming?” I remember what you said actually, I had to hit you in the head for cursing in front of your mother. You must’ve been fourteen? But think about it, you didn’t get all uppity or call it a lucky shot. Because you could just tell. I probably told her exactly that, “You can just tell, baby.”
But as time went on, and I started coaching your team, and your brother’s team, her question started to blur my vision on the field. How did I know they were really aiming there? My first inclination was that it came from the knowledge of repetition; if you’ve seen someone make highlight reel-style goals every game, naturally you’re inclined to assume it can’t be an accident. That’s why when I coach your brother’s team and one of these little bobbleheads pings it top left, I just chalk it up to beginners luck, because I haven’t seen it before and I probably won’t see it again.
But then I got to thinkin’. We played attack for a D1 ballclub, you and I. As good as it gets. What’d you have, twenty-six, twenty-seven goals this season? Now, be honest: how many times were you just shocked as hell that the ball was behind the keeper, huh? How many times did you drive to cage and close your eyes when you got in close because some goon was sliding cross crease? How many times did you go to your left and just pray? I know I did, and we were supposedly the best of the best; as good as it gets, you and I, shooting and praying. So why do we give Mikey Powell the benefit of the doubt, huh? Because people know his name? How do we know he’s really aiming there, when we know we never were?
Now son, listen to me, because this part’s important. I remember how excited you were when your first story got published, and I know you’ve been down because you haven’t gotten anything else out there yet. And I’m not an expert on your fancy grammar and your dangling adjectives, but I do know a little something about people. The truth is everyone out there’s just shooting and praying, hoping they get theirs. Even the ones that you just know were really aiming there. That David Foster Wauchope character of yours is no exception; he was probably shooting and praying too. So the answer to your mothers question is “You don’t know,” but does it matter? Is it any less beautifully executed? Here, give me your cap and gown, you’re sweating all over it. What I’m saying is that there isn’t some big secret to all this you haven’t learned yet. I know this isn’t exactly how you wanted today to go, but I remember when that kid Donovan Pyle used to beat you so bad in practice you’d cry, and you didn’t stop driving the cage then. You kept shooting and praying and closing your eyes and now you’re a writer, and he lives with his parents. So I guess I’m saying put the pen in your hand and keep driving the cage, and sooner or later you’ll be shooting and praying with the best of them. But if your mother ever asks how you know that’s really where he was aiming, you look her dead in the eyes and you say, “You can just tell, Mom.”